


we got two of that, baby

by luninosity



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Bucky Barnes is a tease, Desk Sex, Dom/sub, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Smut, Interruptions At Work, M/M, Panties, Porn with Feelings, Spanking, Sub!Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 13:10:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15631332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: “Mr Barnes,” Steve says, going for stern and cool, trying not to grin. “We don’t have a meeting on the schedule this afternoon.”





	we got two of that, baby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kellyscams](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kellyscams/gifts).



> Literally finished writing this just now; apologies for any typos! Written as a feel-better gift for a lovely friend. *all the hugs*
> 
> Title courtesy of The Interrupters' "By My Side," this time.

“Mr Barnes,” Steve says, going for stern and cool, trying not to grin. “We don’t have a meeting on the schedule this afternoon.”

“I know,” Bucky says back, smirking. He’s here in Steve’s office, here on the glass-and-glimmer twenty-fifth floor of the silvery heights of Shield Advertising Agency where Steve’s designs’ve demonstrated national and international effectiveness, where Steve’s team’s spearheaded publicity for equal rights campaigns and political reform. He’s here wearing a long suspiciously buttoned-up and belted coat, with visible black boots underneath; his hair’s loose and soft and a little messy, the way they both know Steve likes, and his eyes are sparkling.

Steve loves him. Steve loves every single work-interrupting, science-fiction writing, celebrity author, kinky sex kitten inch of him.

Steve’s top marketing and promotion team, the minds who’ve helped make a difference and raise awareness across multiple countries, have popped various heads out of various offices to watch their boss’s boyfriend walk in. Natasha judges, “Good choice of boots. Expensive.”

Sam says, “Man, I’d better not find any lube-related fluids on my latest poster mock-up for the VA, it’s on your _desk_ , Steve.”

Bucky turns around in the doorway, smiles innocently, and waves at Sam. “ _I’m_ about to be on his desk. No time to clean it off first, sorry.”

“I’m gonna find and use the worst possible author photo of you for your next book launch,” Sam says. “You two still on for brunch Saturday? Riley’s thinking pancakes.”

“I’ll bring over plum coffee-cake,” Bucky agrees. “Steve always likes my plums.”

“Bucky,” Steve scolds, laughing and getting up, rolling up sleeves, mock-strict and foolishly stupidly in love. “Get your ass in here. I mean, if you’re gonna interrupt my very important work, Mr Barnes, you and your plums have to face the consequences.”

“At least shut the damn door all the way this time,” Sam says, “some of us don’t want to know what kinky shit goes on in your office, Steve.”

“Some of us might,” Natasha observes, and pops bubble gum.

“Ask Steve about it later,” Bucky says, probably just to see if they will and whether Steve’ll blush or retort with a comment about how useful belts can be or both at once, and shuts the door.

He also pulls down the shades over the window to the rest of the office. And, Steve notices, carefully moves Sam’s mock-up poster design.

Steve loves him so damn much. Heart overflowing with it. Rivers, streams, life-giving floods.

With all that love, the only appropriate response is, “You know I’m very busy, Mr Barnes, and you can’t just waltz in here any time you feel like it. Lots of, y’know, important clients. Projects. Things to…design.”

“I’m really sorry, Steve.” Bucky widens those eyes at him. Bucky’s eyes’ve always been irresistible, that soft generous watercolor-morning hue that Steve’s never found exactly the right color for, because nothing compares to Bucky’s eyes. “It’s just, I’m having a problem, and I really need your help. And you’ve always been so good at knowing what I need.”

“Are you trying to flatter me?” Steve comes around his desk, steps right up to Bucky, gets close enough to touch, to breathe in unison, to lean in. Bucky makes a little sound, maybe inadvertent, now pinned between Steve and the desk; his legs part to let Steve step between them, and his coat opens enough for a flash of pale thigh. That sight goes right to Steve’s gut, down his spine, to his cock, which, yeah, has been up and at attention ever since his boyfriend strolled through the office doors. “That’s not how we do business, Mr Barnes. You’ll have to apologize for that comment.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow.

“Shut up,” Steve says, “I’m improvising, not like you gave me a script. Writer. Jerk. And…what did you say your problem was?”

Bucky grins at him. Leans back across Steve’s desk. Propped on elbows, both the flesh-and-blood and the elegant Wakandan prosthetic. “It’s a problem of…exposure.”

Steve splutters helplessly, recovers, leans down over him. Big enough to do that these days.

And, god, he needs this man, needs Bucky Barnes. Air, breath, blood and bone and soul. The years when he’d thought he’d lost Bucky, when Bucky’d _been_ lost, amnesiac and wounded and traumatized after that illegal military operation, when Steve had been here building an advertising empire and had believed Bucky was dead because they’d told him, and he hadn’t _known_ —

Bucky _is_ here, now. Bucky’d looked at him one day, a stranger bumping shoulders on a New York City street, amid a cacophony of car-horns and tourist chatter and advertising neon, and had recognized Steve’s face, Steve’s voice, Steve’s shocked dizzy immobility at the sight of Bucky Barnes’ eyes.

Bucky’s here now in Steve’s life and Steve’s office. Wearing thigh-high black boots and likely nothing else under that tempting big coat, making jokes about exposure.

“You’re gonna have to show me in more detail,” Steve says. “Guess I haven’t quite grasped the problem.”

“Yes, sir,” Bucky says, which makes Steve’s eyebrows go up—not that they don’t play around with that, but not so much in public, though apparently Bucky’s pretending to be very contrite—and then meekly unfastens the belt of his coat and undoes a few of those delicate black buttons and, oh.

 _Oh_. Bucky _is_ wearing not much else. Exactly one pair of lacy blue panties, deep enticing navy because he knows Steve likes lush saturated colors, and those thigh-high black boots, with decorative show-off straps and buckles along the sides, and two pretty little nipple clamps shaped like smoky silver-and-gold stars, matching the glinting motion of his arm. All of it’s framed by the dark velvety sweep of his coat, now puddling on Steve’s sturdy desk.

Steve forgets how to breathe for a second. Head over heels. Lust, love, the raging desire to pound Bucky into the desk, the need to run hands over Bucky everyplace and whisper ragged heartfelt words about how lovely he is, how amazing, how incredible.

“You see, sir,” Bucky says, all earnest and sweet, “why it’s a problem about exposure, I’m just feelin’ very…vulnerable, right now. Very naked. Wondering what suggestions you’d make about what to do with my image.”

“It’s not a bad image,” Steve says. “Pretty good image, from where I’m standing.” He puts out a hand, runs it over Bucky’s chest, over that flat stomach. Down to the bulge of Bucky’s cock, outlined in pretty blue. Then he squeezes.

Bucky gasps.

Steve pauses to check that wasn’t a real objection—Bucky throws him a dazzling grin—and taps the hand against that luscious cock. Not quite hard enough to hurt, or maybe a little: Bucky likes having his cock slapped, handled roughly, played with hard, made to take whatever Steve wants. Bucky wants to be good for Steve, to give himself over into Steve’s hands; that was always true, and more so now, not something they’d lost but something they’ve found and keep finding over and over, joyously.

Steve slips a finger under the edge of the panties. Lets them snap back against skin. “The problem I’m seeing, Mr Barnes, is one of boundaries. Appropriate behavior. Even if you are a bestselling author, you can’t just show up in someone’s office makin’ demands, Buck.”

Bucky pauses to laugh.

“I said quiet,” Steve grumbles, and slides a hand to the small of his back and pulls him up and then spins him around—stopping for a kiss along the way—and shoves him back down over the desk.

Face-down. Ass up. Cock pressed into the folds of his coat where it’s keeping the firm oaken fortress of Steve’s desk from harm.

Bucky moans some more and squirms in place, clearly liking the pressure, the friction.

“I think you’re gonna need reminding about your place,” Steve decides. “About what you deserve, showing up here like that. Asking me for ideas.” He’s pulling down Bucky’s panties, slow and deliberate. “Looks like you got a few ideas already.”

Bucky’s wearing one of their larger plugs, black and thick and nestled deep inside his body. He must’ve been wearing it on his way over, wearing it while walking around in public, while taking the elevator up; Steve’s body quivers and tightens at the image. His cock’s granite in his pants, hot and ready.

He rests a hand over Bucky’s hip. “What do you think I should do with you, Buck? What kind of reminder do you need?”

“Anything,” Bucky begs, which gets Steve to stop and check—Bucky sounds and looks pretty far gone, voice shaky and blissful, eyes wide and dreamy, cheek pressed into coat-fabric. But there’s a smile and a murmur of, “Yeah, we’re good, go on, fuckin’ spank me, Steve,” so Steve laughs and kisses him fast and hard and fierce instead, hand at the nape of Bucky’s neck to hold him down, until Bucky’s moaning and shuddering and rocking hips into the desk, blind with need.

“Still makin’ demands, aren’t you,” Steve muses, and gets Bucky’s pretty lace panties down further, leaving his boyfriend, yeah, _exposed_ across his desk. “Still, not a bad idea. Guess you have some good ones.”

He rests his hand over the closest upturned curve for just long enough to make Bucky quiver and anticipate. Then snaps it up and down. Hard.

Again. And again, and harder. Until Bucky’s skin’s flushed red and hot and lovely; until Steve’s hand’s tingling and Steve’s cock’s throbbing; until the urgency’s singing in heartbeats and Bucky’s soft whimpers and the dim afternoon light around the corners of office shades, wrapping this moment and this scene up like a present just for them.

A present with a bow on it, maybe. Pink like Bucky’s ass. Silver-starred like those nipple clamps, which must be rubbing against the desk too; Bucky must be drowning in sensation, awash with it, afloat. When Steve runs a hand along the arch of his back, tracing his spine, he moans and sighs and seems to melt into the caress, malleable as light and silk and hot wax.

They’ve played with those on occasion, too.

Steve leaves kisses at the back of Bucky’s neck, the spot along one shoulder where metal meets flesh, the proof that Bucky’s here and alive. He digs fingers into Bucky’s hip, into Bucky’s ass: more proof, tangible and printed clear as the glow from his hands. Bucky sighs, “Steve,” drowsy and pliant as a kitten, small and quiet now, adrift in pleasure that Steve’s given him.

Sometimes—not all the time, but sometimes—Bucky gets like this, that kind of quiet: not exactly innocent, not quite younger, but wholly surrendered. Entire self relinquished. Thoughts and awareness dissolved into serene translucent anguish and ecstasy, clear and cleansed and annealed.

He’s thoroughly given over to Steve’s hands and care, and oh Steve will care for him, will love him and cherish him and fill him up to the brim and beyond.

This time the kiss brushes the corner of Bucky’s lips; Bucky’s slow to kiss back, uncoordinated, but licks his lips after, tasting Steve's presence.

Steve breathes, “I love you.”

Bucky murmurs something that sounds like _Steve_ and _love_. Steve’s heart flips over with impossible emotion.

He says, “More?”

“More…sir…”

Steve’s already sliding his belt free of belt-loops. The dry rustle catches Bucky’s attention; that’s definitely a yes.

“Good,” Steve says. “You know you get what I decide you get.”

Bucky whines and tries to spread legs even further, rubbing himself against Steve’s desk. Steve permits this for a moment, then says, “Stop.”

Bucky whimpers, freezing in place.

“What did we say about good behavior, Buck?” One more spank for good measure. “Does that pretty little cock need attention? How does it feel, gettin’ off by humping my desk, in my office, Buck, you can’t fuckin’ wait for me to take care of you, you need it that bad?”

“Please,” Bucky moans. “Please, sir…Steve…”

“Ten,” Steve says. “With my belt. And you don’t come until I say so.”

Bucky’s practically sobbing now, but nods.

The belt cracks leather through the air. Leaves lines and stripes across Bucky’s already tender backside, down his thighs, over his sensitive skin.

After six Steve slips a hand under him and fondles his cock. Nice and fat and slick and wet, dripping and messy, leaving smears and pools in those panties and on Bucky’s thoughtfully placed coat, protecting the desk. Bucky cries out and his hips jerk, thrusting into Steve’s hand.

“No,” Steve says. Another small pulse of wetness dribbles out at this; Bucky likes him being dominant. In command. “How’re your nipples? Do they hurt?”

“No,” Bucky sobs. “Yes…I don’t know, Steve, I don’t…it’s so much, please…”

“Too much?” He leaves the belt resting on Bucky’s bare back, bending down to ask. “Tell me.”

“ ’M okay…”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Good. _Real_ good. Keep going.”

“Tell me if you want to stop,” Steve instructs, and picks up the belt.

Two more. Harder. Making Bucky cry out, and the walls’re thick but maybe not that thick, but at this point Steve doesn’t give a damn. Not like his team hasn’t just seen Bucky walk in wearing those boots. Anyway, serves them right. Back when they’d first met Bucky, Sam’d said, “huh,” and then publicly announced that he’d always figured Steve was a virgin. Bucky’d started laughing so hard he’d had to clutch the door for support. Steve’s not above petty revenge.

Last two, and Bucky’s trembling, not disobeying orders but simply unable to keep still, tiny random thoughtless twitches and quivers and visible pleas. His mouth’s open, making small soft sounds; his eyes are open but dazed, not quite focused, lost in radiance. Steve, one hand undoing his own pants, drawing out and idly giving his own arousal a pump or two, strokes his hair, strokes his cheek; Bucky makes another sweet little noise and nuzzles into the touch.

Steve says, gently, tenderly, “I’m going to fuck you now, sweetheart,” and eases him up, turns him over, gets him on his back on the desk. Bucky’s legs, in their boots, are lax and clumsy, molten with desire; Bucky’s delicate blue panties are wet and stained, and his cock’s a lovely dark hue when Steve pulls fabric away. Bucky sobs as his ass hits the desk, but then shifts again anyway, panting.

Steve slides the plug out of him, noting with approval how stretched and slick Bucky is there too, hole waiting and ready. He says, “Good boy,” while stroking the rim with a finger; Bucky whimpers.

Steve, kindly, removes Bucky’s nipple clamps. Tosses them across the desk, where they wink and shine, tiny excited stars. The desk’s nice and big. It’ll hold up.

Bucky, sensation rushing back into abused sensitive buds, is crying in earnest now, more so when Steve kisses his right nipple and licks and sucks at it, lavishing wet heat over nerve-endings. Then he bites down. Just a bit.

Bucky’s a beautiful mess now, tears and slick dripping cock and yearning body under Steve’s, spread out and open on the desk. Steve kisses him, pulls him to the edge, slips between those thighs. Plunges into him.

He’s gentle here too at first, but only at first. Bucky needs to feel it. And so the thrusts become rougher, wilder, deeper: forcing them together, keeping them together, both of them feeling it, every inch.

Bucky’s sobbing and shaking and clenching helplessly around him, beneath him, ass hot against Steve’s body; Steve wraps a hand around Bucky’s luscious cock, whispers, “Are you gonna be good for me, sweetheart? This what you wanted, showing up here, needing me to give you what you deserve? What I decide you deserve, right here, in my office, with my belt, with my hands, my cock fucking that pretty ass, when you’re all red from me spanking you…”

“Steve,” Bucky gasps. “Steve, please, _please_ —fuck, _yes_ —”

“You think you deserve to fucking come, Buck?”

Bucky’s eyes fly open wide, at that. “Steve—oh fuck, Steve, sir, please, I need—”

“Are you still making demands?”

Bucky actually gasps again, a shocked sudden inhale, and then goes more quiet: oddly tranquil, almost limp, eyes fluttering shut and then halfway open. “No, sir…yours, sir, ’m sorry…”

“Good boy.”

“Anything you want.” Bucky’s voice sounds tipsy, hazy, clouded with euphoria: rambling and almost incoherent. “Anything, sir, make me come, don’t let me, yours, please, whatever you want, spank me, sir…want to…need to feel you…yours, yours, yes, Steve…”

“I love you,” Steve tells him, and begins stroking his cock: gradual to start, but faster, harsher, enough that it’ll almost be painful, a jerk and a tug and a reminder that yes, this is Steve’s too, the way all of Bucky is.

The way Steve is Bucky’s, forever: giving Bucky what he needs, heart and body and soul.

He slams into Bucky with abandon now, feeling the way Bucky’s hole opens up and takes him, so good around him. He breathes, “You can, when I come, when you feel me come inside you,” and the thought and the words are enough: he’s only got one more thrust, and then the wave overtakes him: a breaking dam, a spill of brilliant white, a thunderstorm that’s built of his and Bucky’s pulse-beats and his own groan and Bucky’s tiny airless scream and the bright hot rush of Bucky’s come across Steve’s hand.

He kisses Bucky’s stomach, after. He kisses Bucky.

He stays inside as long as he can, though he has to slip out eventually; he eases the plug back in to keep Bucky nice and full, finds the towel that lives here for exactly these occasions, cleans Bucky up as best he can. The panties’re probably a lost cause.

Bucky murmurs something inarticulate, waking up. “Shh,” Steve says, and gathers him up, scoops him into arms, takes him over to the small office couch under the window. “Shh.”

Bucky cries a little; that’s fine, that’s expected. Steve holds him, soothes him, kisses him. Bucky, more awake though not entirely, says, “Steve…”

“Yeah?”

“So damn good.”

“Yeah,” Steve says fondly, “you are,” and waves a water bottle at him. “Drink.”

“Mmm…”

“Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“I like you visiting me at work.”

“I know.” Bucky grins, weary and triumphant. “Love you. Even if you’re _really_ into it with that belt, ow, fuck.”

“Sorry?”

“Nah, I like it. Are you done for today? Know I interrupted you.”

“Just a few things to approve. Sam’s poster idea.” He runs a hand over Bucky’s hair, proprietary. “I’m not letting you walk out of here alone dressed like that. You can stay, I’ll only be a few minutes, and I’ll drive us both home.”

“I like your plan.” Bucky tips his head against Steve’s shoulder. “Gonna need you to grab my coat. It’s got my notebook in the pocket.”

Steve blinks.

“Well,” Bucky says, shrugging, “I got an idea. For a scene. For the next novel. If you’re gonna be a few minutes.”

“Is my belt making it into your book?”

“Maybe. Science fiction erotica. Sex for everybody. Actually it was about flying cars, but now I’m thinking they could totally have sex in a flying car.”

“I’d have sex with you in a flying car.”

“I know you would,” Bucky agrees, swinging a leg where it’s draped over Steve’s lap, contented and smiling and loved, the way Steve always always wants him to be. The rest of the office, beyond closed windows and the door, is tellingly silent. Not that Steve cares. Because, again: Bucky’s smiling. “You’ll have sex with me anywhere. Including your office desk. _Again_.”

“I like my desk,” Steve says, straight-faced. “It’s a turn-on.”

“I like your dick,” Bucky says. “It’s a turn-on.”

“Come here and I’ll turn you on,” Steve says, which makes zero sense but gets Bucky to laugh, so that’s a win. “Actually seriously give me twenty minutes and then I’ll take you home and tie you to the bed and we can pretend it’s a flying car and I’ve sort of space-opera kidnapped you and I’ll ravish you with evil science fiction torture devices, sound good?”

“You should be the writer, not me.” Bucky kisses him this time: radiant and radiantly happy. “ ’Cause yeah, sounds perfect, Steve.”


End file.
